Prince of Persia: The Irony of Fate
by SpiritKiller
Summary: The Prince's journey is at an end, but his ancestor's is just about to begin in the distant future of the 41st millenium. Prince of Persia and Warhammer 40000 Crossover. WARNING: contains ending spoiler for The Two Thrones. Please R&R.


**Prince of Persia: The Irony of Fate**

**Introduction**

"So, that brings us to the duel with the Vizier and his death, which I'm sure you know about; and that, my dear Farah, is the end of my journey," thus the Prince ended his tale. It was only a few hours since the defeat of the Vizier on the balcony, yet the Prince and Farah were still there, gazing over the recovering city under the night sky. Farah looked at the Prince, quite shocked of the story she heard. She had trouble understanding all that the Prince divulged, and worse, accepting it.

"You mean, we have met seven years ago, and I cannot remember it because of this new timeline you created by changing your fate?" Farah asked, trying to confirm what she understood so far.

"Yes," the Prince replied, "and as you see, it was for the better for Babylon and us. Perhaps in a different timeline, where I had destroyed Kaileena and the Sands of Time instead of the Dahaka, we would not have met again. Perhaps the Vizier would kill you along with your father, and destroy Babylon in his madness. Perhaps I would be killed in the place of Kaileena as a symbol of his conquest. Then perhaps, all would be truly lost."

"Perhaps Babylon would not have been invaded if you hadn't gone to the Island of Time to save your own skin," Farah added. The Prince's expression saddened as his guilt caught up with him. Farah's words had reopened an old wound. He turned to her, letting her see his expression.

"I know..." he said, sounding like a wounded man, "All of this destruction is my doing, but I have accepted it as my fault. I know it will be a long time before I can make amends to my people for this selfish stupidity." With that, he swung back to viewing the city, bashing his clenched fist on the pillar next to him. Farah turned him back towards her, a smile of compassion forming on her face, and without a warning brought his lips together with hers. The Prince was caught completely by surprise, but now he had found an answer to his dilemma of the heart. 'She still loves me!' he thought, embracing her and hoping that the kiss would last forever, 'Even after all I've done she still loves me!'

This kiss was unfortunately short-lived, as Farah broke it, but it had the effect she wanted. The Prince looked quite cheerful again, having answered the one question she knew that troubled him.

"Acceptance is the first step to redemption," she said, attempting to rid her love of his guilt, "You saved your people, and this is enough for them to forgive you. Do you hear them condemning you? They stood by your side when you needed them the most! They bought you time while you fought the Vizier! Do you think they have not forgiven you?"

"You are right, Farah," the Prince said. For a moment, though, he seemed puzzled. Farah noticed his curious change in face.

"What's wrong?" she asked, worried about her love.

"I just had the strangest thought," he said, "Maybe my fate was to use the Sands in the first place. Maybe the Dahaka was fate's way of forcing me to go to the Island of Time. Maybe I was meant to rescue Kaileena and change time like this. I may still be a puppet of fate, and so may my future incarnations."

"That is by far the most absurd babble I have ever heard," Farah protested, stopping the Prince in his tracks, "Why worry about this when the Empress of Time herself said your own journey is at an end?"

"You're right, my love," he said, "It is absurd, and completely unlikely. Let us forget about this and tend to more important matters. This city needs a king, and I am the last of the royal family."

"And it could use a queen as well," she added, embracing his arm. Both smiled as they left the balcony and descended the castle to meet the people at the gates.

Even if the Prince found his reasoning absurd, he was correct. For a fate as adventurous and dangerous as his was unravelling for an incarnation of his in a future so far from his time that the name of Babylon was forgotten by all men.

**Chapter 1: _The Xenos Experts_**

"INCOMING!" yelled a man as a shell whistled towards a trench and blasted some gravel in it. A constant silo of whistles followed the first, hammering a trench, which was stretching out as far as the eye could see, on both sides. The men inside, all of whom were wearing the same grey pants and shirts and green armour, were terrified and curled up under the side of the trench that faced their enemy. Some were praying to the Emperor of mankind, asking him to get them through this day alive. Others were trying to comfort themselves with the fact that their opponents were the worst marksmen in the universe. All, however, thought their death was near.

Amongst the trench line, one of these men, equally scared, but also rather pissed, moved down the line and yelled: "Damn it, sarge! Where's our fire support?"

"I would've known," said a man with white shoulder pads instead of the standard green, "If Jones could get a signal through the bombardment!" The sergeant put a hand on the scared private's shoulder, and faked a comforting smile rather successfully. "But don't you worry, lad! We called out for reinforcements! We're getting the help of the best of the Imperium on this one!" Even if the soldier seemed in a better mood, the sergeant was still worried. Their last transmission was an hour ago, and reinforcements should've arrived by now. The hold-up was worrying; as if the line had not reached HQ at all. He wasn't sure himself if they were to survive. He was drowning in guilt from giving hope to the private.

Just then, a shell whistle sounded from their own side and a loud KABOOM on the enemy side. The men in the trench all cheered as the enemy bombardment died one shell whistle at a time.

"See?" the sergeant told the same private, now bearing a real smile, "I told you they'd get here!"

"But the battle isn't over yet," a voice was heard. The troops turned to the direction of the voice. It was their lieutenant, and he was bearing a face so serious that it drained the joy out of the rest of them.

"Whaddya mean, sir?" the sergeant asked, puzzled at his superior ranking officer's comment.

"The Orks have lost their lobbas and stolen Imperial vehicles," the officer explained, "so they'll probably assault. If we just sit here, we have a very good chance of being their next meal."

The soldiers were now more frightened than before. "So, what do we do, sir?" asked the frightened sergeant.

"Take your designated firing positions and set up some heavy bolters," ordered the officer, "That should hold them off until the Space Marines arrive."

The sergeant's expression changed to a wide grin. "Good call, sir," he said, then turned to his troops as the lieutenant left to alert the rest of the plan, "Imperial Guardsmen, we will soon be relieved! But we were asked to keep the Orks back until our replacements arrive. I say we don't just keep them at bay. I say we give them a good taste of the Emperor's wrath!" The twenty guardsmen under his command raised their guns in the sky and cheered. "All right, men! Take firing positions! Set up all the heavy bolters we've got!" The Guardsmen began working feverishly to unpack the heavy bolters and check their lasguns before taking their positions over the trench. "The Orks haven't seen the last of Imperial might, yet," the sergeant said, he too checking that his weapon, a mere pistol, was functioning properly.

After a few minutes, the entire line of trenches had lasguns and heavy bolters over the edge, all waiting for the enemy to move in. After a few minutes of total silence, the ground began to rumble. A green tide appeared in the horizon, and moved towards the trenches. As they closed in, one could tell that the tide was made of ferocious-looking green beasts, all dressed in a leather vest and baggy pants, waving axes in the air and screaming "WAAAAAAGH!" as they rushed forward, putting a chill in every guardsman's spine.

"Heavy bolters ready!" yelled the still unshaken sergeant, "Fire!"

Under the fire of the heavy bolter, Orks were falling faster than a swarm of bees in flames. The guardsmen smiled as the vast numbers in front of them were reduced to something their standard-issue lasguns could handle. All the Orks that managed to come forward were met with laser fire, and before the last one could reach the trench, they were all dead. The men were about to cheer in relief and joy that they were able to survive, but they were cut short as another wave, much bigger than the last, neared. The heavy bolter fire was still cutting through them, but the numbers surviving were far more. The guardsmen trembled at the mere thought of facing these brutes in close combat. They kept firing like mad at the coming numbers as they readied their knives and the sergeant started up his chainsword.

The Orks were almost within striking range, when out of the skies a black metal construct in the shape of a rosebud landed on them, crushing most of them and sending the remaining two or three flying through the air in the Imperial Guard trenches. The sergeant gasped at the symbol on what he recognised as the Space Marine drop pods. It was the "I" of the Inquisition with a pair of crossed bones and a skull over them; it was the most secret and most revered chapter of the Space Marines that came to their aid. This battle must have been very important for these angels of death to be sent.

"Hold your fire, men!" he yelled, the Guardsmen lowering their guns, "The Deathwatch are here!" The men all awed and cheered, as the Orks backed up and more drop pods arrived from the sky. The guns mounted on the pods were reducing the numbers of the Orks even more as the doors opened. What Orks were remaining charged forward at the emerging towering and thick-bodied men, all wearing thick and heavy-looking battle armour, yet moving so freely, and all bearing weapons much stronger than what the Imperial Guard had in their arsenal. They were the Space Marines of the Deathwatch, and the Guardsmen knew the Orks would die today.

Amongst those eight-foot-tall men was a man of normal stature and body shape, yet still clad in the same type of armour, although it was mostly concealed by his plain brown raincoat. One of the Marines turned to him and asked in a metallic voice (seeing that he wore his battle helmet):

"So, what are your orders, Inquisitor?"

The Inquisitor turned to him, making his bionic left eye visible through his just-over-collar-length hair, and bearing an ever-serious expression.

"Shoot them down," he ordered. 'If enough of them die, their Warboss will come to challenge us,' he thought, as the Marines shot the Orks down like flies, 'All those overzealous 'prophets' have the same simple-minded reasoning.' Despite their original hesitation, the Orks resumed their assault, screaming their battle cry and charging forward. Despite the silo of fire of the Deathwatch, a few of the green brutes managed to get through the line. The Inquisitor simply smirked, thinking of how good a chance it is to test his new weapons and collect the samples his superiors wanted.

"Leave them to me," he said, drawing out a bulky pistol with flashing ammo and an impressive-looking decorated long-sword that was sparking with electricity, "They will regret the day they sprouted out of the ground!"

The Inquisitor charged forward, unshaken from a sight of what would make a normal man tremble in fear or turn a Marine into a heap of gore and scrap metal. His grin grew wider when he saw that one of his opponents wore a banner on his backpack and looked even more brawny and hardy than the average green brute.

'A Nob!' he thought excitedly, 'Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this warm-up!'

The Alien Hunter raised his left arm, aimed his one-shot-kill pistol and fired at the approaching Orks. His quicksilver left-hand trigger finger had blown the heads off of three green-skins, and burrowed a whole through the chests of another two. No blood ran off the bodies; plasma fire only left scorch marks on the dead.

His bad luck with plasma weaponry caught up with him, though, as when he pulled the trigger again, beheading a sixth Ork, smoke emerged from the gun barrel and ammo clip. The Inquisitor knew all to well the meaning of this smoke, and with certified discontent he tossed the overheated weapon at his enemy. The green brutes and their bulkier leader were puzzled as to why the human threw such a "shooty" (as they would call it) gun at them. Their question shortly died as the pistol flew past them and exploded behind them. 'That's the third one since I've started using these!' thought the still disgruntled specialist, 'The Ordo Xenos Treasury will definitely have a fit when they see the Mars Forge World bill.'

The first Ork was now close enough to strike. It reared its axe and swung forward in a move that would split a normal human in two down the middle. Our hero, though, was not normal. As the Ork's axe connected with the ground, it was surprised that its target was no longer there. What surprised him even more was the pain it felt around its waist, but it had no time to answer these questions as it passed away.

The Inquisitor moved as swiftly as flowing water, delivering one kill after the other with inhuman skill and grace, until his power sword met good resistance.

'So this Nob managed to stop a power sword with his power claw,' he thought, seeing his sword embedded halfway into a heavy-looking crudely-manufactured robotic claw, and his grin growing wider, 'This universe is still full of surprises. I definitely need to analyse this one.'

"Youse laughin' at me?" came an enraged but slow and primitive voice from behind the gargantuan claw, "Stupid humie! I'm gonna makes you dead!"

The Nob swung its mechanical arm, launching the Inquisitor backwards through the air. The Xenos expert, his right hand still holding his power sword, landed as softly as a feather onto one of the Orks he had put out of commission. His enemy roared in pain, putting his normal green arm over a hole in his claw from which blood was dripping.

"Looking for this?" the hero asked sarcastically, holding the missing piece of the Ork's armour and flesh on his hand. Filed with rage, the Nob shouted a mighty "Waaagh!" and charged forward. The Inquisitor, acting as if nothing is happening, placed the "sample" he had collected in a pouch next to his plasma pistol holster. The primitive brute took his enemy's calmness as a further insult, making the fire in his eyes burn hotter; it reared its claw back further to deliver a more deadly blow to the calm man, who was simply standing and awaiting the attack of the beast.

Any normal man would be considered insane or suicidal if he stood awaiting the enemy to attack with such a decisive blow. But it was different for this specialist; he knew every strategy, every move, and every weakness an alien could possibly have, and what this Ork squad leader was about to do was no different from what he faced before. 'It'll be very easy way to defeat this skilled one' he thought, 'All I need is agility, and my heirloom'. With this thought he waited until the Nob was but a step from striking distance, and its claw was descending on him already.

'Perfect!' he thought, as he grabbed his sword's hilt with both hands and swung it towards the claw like a baseball bat. The clash of the weapons had the effect the hunter hoped for: the power with which he swung his blade stopped the claw short and even pushed it back. "What?" screamed his surprised foe, as the Ork's claw dragged it along and almost caused it to topple over. Before the Nob even realised what happened, the Inquisitor was running on it and over it, and a sharp pain shot through its brain as the long power sword met with the back of its head. The same pain shot through its legs as it toppled over.

Our hero was now kneeling on the muddy, battle-worn ground, facing the legless alien with a mixture of disgust towards it and self-satisfaction. As the creature screamed with pain, the relentless hunter flung the left side of his rain coat back, and drew out his impressive heirloom: a heavily embellished, long-barrelled 18th century musket, with an old-fashioned torch (which lit itself as soon as he drew the gun) top attached to the barrel and a canister of a dark liquid attached to it. It was a pistol of devastating power; a cruel executioner's best friend, and at close range a weapon that can melt an entire tank to the ground; it was the Inferno Pistol.

'This alien,' the Inquisitor thought, 'as all the strong aliens I have met, shall suffer to its last breath.' With a pull and hold of the trigger, a jet of flames shot out from the Inferno Pistol, covering the Ork completely. The creature was now twisting and screaming as its body burned in the fires of living hell. The Inquisitor smiled devilishly as he kept burning the brute until nothing but ashes were left. 'If only its fuel wasn't so expensive,' was the only cruel thought this executioner had, as he replaced the empty fuel canister with a new one. He is what would be considered a heartless fanatic racist in our present time; but he is thought of as a hero in this dark future. The Imperial Guardsmen even cheered his actions as they climbed out of the trenches.

The Inquisitor was neither smiling, nor frowning. He was looking towards the Ork fortress, wondering why the Warboss had not shown up after this slaughter of his 'Boyz' (as the Warboss would call them). He signalled to the guardsmen to fall silent, and so they did in the blink of an eye. He flung his hair back to reveal his left ear, a bionic ear, which he pressed on as if he was pressing buttons to tune to a frequency. His bionic eye zoomed in further than ever before. He could now hear and see what could be happening at the enemy base, and the sounds differed too much from the silence he hoped for.

He could hear the clashing of blades and firing of weapons and the bursts of jets all the way to the other side of the fortress. He could see Space Marines of light-brown-and-gold-coloured armour with jet-like devices on their backs descending upon the enemy, yet outside the fortress. He knew something was wrong.

"Brother-Sergeant Matthew!" the Inquisitor yelled.

A helmet-less Space Marine, with clear signs that he was a sergeant, advanced and stood next to the Inquisitor.

"Yes, sir," he said coldly and formally.

"Patch a line through to the Blood Lions!" the Inquisitor ordered, "See if they need our help."

The sergeant saluted and returned to the drop pods. The Inquisitor then called forward the lieutenants of the Imperial Guard forces.

"There is one thing you must do before leaving this planet," he said, "Assemble all the flamers you have and torch every piece of ground the Orks have stepped on; especially the humid and shaded areas." He was glad that the lieutenants executed the order so quickly. The Orks would never inhabit this place again.

As the revered hero observed the purging of the battlefield, he felt his heart coming more at an ease. He knew that if they had left it as is, Orks would sprout out of the ground and bring terror to this planet again. Now the green tide would end on this system.

"Sir!" sounded the voice of the Brother-Sergeant, interrupting the Inquisitor's thoughts.

"Do they need our help?" he asked.

"Yes," the Marine said, "The Orks are wreaking havoc over there. There's a Squiggoth supported by Lobbas and Zzap Gunz, and a real tide of greenskins! Their commander said that they need help immediately."


End file.
